


Red Haze

by ShippersList



Series: Whumptober 2018 [14]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Implied/Referenced Torture, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Psychological Trauma, Red Room Natasha, Whumptober 2018
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-14
Updated: 2018-10-14
Packaged: 2019-08-02 05:22:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16298912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShippersList/pseuds/ShippersList
Summary: The Red Room gets Natasha back. The result isn't pretty.Whumptober prompt: Torture





	Red Haze

When I wake up, I don’t know where I am.

That, itself, isn’t new. I recognize the soft haze in my peripheral vision, the fog-like clouding that tells me I’ve been wiped clean. It tells me to be patient and wait for my instructions.

When they call my name, I stare right ahead, as is expected of me. I answer the calibrating questions briskly, my voice as level as it always is. This is routine, this is safe. This is who I am.

> _Mission #8977013_
> 
> _Last known location: New York_
> 
> _Engage. Interrogate. Eliminate._

I read the file through, memorize it, and nod as I reach the end. They hand me my bag and I walk out of the compound without looking back.

 

* * *

 

Finding him is ridiculously easy. 

Engaging him is even easier, even though I can admit it’s been a while since I’ve last had to work this hard. It doesn’t matter, however, because in the end, I stab him with a needle to knock him out, and then strip, bind, and gag him up before hoisting him in the trunk of my car. I use a wet wipe to clean my face of blood and pull on a baseball cap to conceal the deep cut on my forehead. 

A couple of hours later, after reaching the abandoned factory I’m using as my base for this mission, I inject him with another dose before moving him in and shackling him to the wall with the reinforced titanium alloy cuffs.

And then I wait.

 

* * *

 

He wakes up almost like I do, going from asleep to wide awake and battle-ready in a flash. Almost, but not quite. I observe him taking in his surroundings before he opens his eyes and I sneer at his incompetence. If I was as obvious like him, I’d be whipped and then made to repeat the exercise until I mastered it.

When he finally opens his eyes, it takes him three and a half seconds to locate me. Sloppy. I know my contempt shows but I don’t care.

He’s my mission.

He tries to talk to me, uses words that sound vaguely familiar and yet foreign, his pronunciation atrocious and too round—too American—in his mouth. I ignore him as I start working, as I’m only interested in his answers to my questions. He tries to stall and evade, of course he does, but I’m very good at my work and, after seven removed fingernails, five knives buried to the hilt on various pressure points, and more broken bones I bother counting, he finally starts answering my questions. Oh, I still need to drag each and every answer out of him with considerable force but at least I’m getting somewhere.

Finally.

 

* * *

 

When I have everything I need—including but not limited to the knowledge of how the Wakandans managed to break his conditioning—he’s a shivering mess on the floor, resembling more of a skinned carcass than a human being. I’m cleaning my tools with my back at him when he says, ”I’m sorry.”

I turn around with a raised brow. ”For what?” I ask.

”For this,” he wheezes. ”That you had to live through all this again. That I couldn’t protect you.”

”I don’t need your protection,” I say calmly. ”I live to comply.”

He shakes his head just a little, a jerky small move. ”No, you don’t. You have a life, a _real_ life out there. Just like I do. You have to fight this. _”_

Instead of answering him, I turn back around to my tools. His words stir something inside of me and I don’t like the feeling. It makes me itchy and uncomfortable.

Compromised.

”Tasha, please,” he whispers. ”I’m your friend, remember?”

”No. You’re my mission,” I say and turn around to face him for the last time, raise my gun, and shoot him right in between the wide, expressive eyes.

”And now the mission is over.”

I walk out without looking back. Why would I? I’m going home.


End file.
